Daughters of the Night Sky(41)
“It’s no trouble, my dears. And please, call me Lina.” She turned her back to us, leaving the door open. There was no polite refusal, though we hated for her to use her rations on us. We’d have to find a way to sneak her back some flour and eggs at the next opportunity.
“Come sit, ladies.” Pytor Utkin motioned to two empty seats at the scarred kitchen table. “We hope you will join us for our afternoon tea when you can. It’s a pleasure for us to have company since our Lev went off to fight.”
“Do you hear from him often?” Taisiya asked, smiling at Lina, who placed a massive portion of honeyed layer cake before her. Apparently she thought to feed us like the adolescent boy she pined for.
“Not often, no,” Lina admitted, placing a similarly gargantuan piece before me. “He was never fond of writing, though.”
“Do you know where he is, more or less?”
“They took him to Leningrad when the fighting broke out, and I expect that’s where he’ll stay until they break through the blockade,” Pytor said. “They’ll get through one way or another, mark my words.” He stared into his cup of tea for a moment, his face grim.
“Those poor people,” Lina clucked. “Prisoners in their own city.”
Taisiya and I exchanged glances. We hadn’t heard any real news from Leningrad in months. The propaganda posters reminded us that the blood of our brethren entombed in that city had to be avenged, but we didn’t know for certain what was left.
The cake before me looked as beautiful as any I’d seen before the war. The thin layers of cake and honeyed cream smelled as decadent as a perfumed bath. I took a bite, and while the cream and honey tasted sweet and smelled inviting, the cake itself was tough and ashy.
“The flour isn’t what it used to be,” Lina said, bowing her head briefly.
Color rose to my cheeks, and I was ashamed I hadn’t been able to conceal my distaste. “There are shortages of almost everything. We all have to sacrifice.”
“The tea is wonderful,” Taisiya added. She’d been more successful in hiding her disgust at the cake, always better at adopting a neutral expression than I was.
“It’s our pleasure to have anything to share with brave girls like you.”
“You’re kind to have us stay with you.” I stumbled on the words, knowing the choice wasn’t truly theirs.
“It’s a lovely turn of events,” Lina said. “The men fighting for us are brave and noble, but it’s much easier to house the two of you.”
“And you’re a far sight prettier to look at than the poor foot soldiers at the front,” Pytor said with a chuckle. “It’s not a usual path for a woman, though, is it?”
“We’re all called to help Mother Russia in whatever capacity we can,” Taisiya said, placing her cup back on the ridged wooden planks of the kitchen table.
“And we’re grateful to you,” Lina said quickly, fearing her husband’s flippant comment had caused offense.
“Yes, yes,” Pytor added. “I’d be in the fracas myself if they wanted me, but with a bad knee I’m not of much use.”
“You do a great deal for the war effort by housing us here so comfortably,” I said, forcing myself to eat more of the unfortunate cake.
“Will you do me one service, my dears?” Lina asked, her eyes welling with tears. “Ask after our boy. Lev is all we have. He was proud to go and fight. Signed up before he had to. He’s a good boy, but I want—”
“You want him home,” I said, finishing the sentence for her as her tears choked back the words too painful to speak. “We can’t make any promises that it will do any good, but we can try.”
“Thank you, girls,” Pytor said, his voice gruff with his own unshed tears.
I felt a deep ache in my heart, knowing that they were only two of millions of parents living for the next postcard from the front.
CHAPTER 13
June 1942, the Southern Front, Sorties: 0
We stood at attention, waiting for the general to give his instructions. We’d completed the extra training he’d insisted upon. Sofia promised that he would have no choice but to send us out on missions, as his excuses were growing feebler and the need for our skills more undeniable by the day. As we waited our faces were somber. No glint of pride or enthusiasm shone in our eyes to betray our solemnity, as it might have done even months before.
“You will be flying your first sortie tonight,” Chernov said without preamble.
One sortie? A mission comprised multiple flights—sorties. What was this?
A look at Sofia’s face answered the question. It was not a resolute mask of determination and duty. Her brow was furrowed, and her jaw was set. She was displeased and only just keeping control of her tongue.
We would only be allowed to fly one sortie, as a test of our battle readiness.
“Three teams will fly out at 2100 hours,” the general went on. His usually ruddy skin was now tinged a sickly shade of orange, likely caused by poor health and stress—by-products of the war in which we would now take our place. “Those teams are charged with destroying a stockpile of German munitions. If the mission is a success, the rest of you will go out the following evening. Your missions will be tactical in nature. Bombing supply lines and bridges, a few strategic buildings. You’ll be flying over German territory, so above all we want you keeping the damned Huns awake as much as you can. If there is anything your crop dusters are good for, it’s making a racket. We want to use that to our advantage.”